For Always, Take Two
by DonnaBella10
Summary: Sherlock is a 1000 year old vampire who had just lost the love of his life and mate, John Watson, after 60 years together. Decades have gone by and now in present day London, Sherlock is brought by fate to meet a man... Who speaks, looks, acts and even holds the same name of his dead lover. Could he get a second chance? Johnlock/reincarnation
1. Chapter 1

**JOHN WATSON-HOLMES**  
1876-1952  
Beloved Husband  
Gone From This World  
Yet He Abides For Always  
In My Heart

John. They had shared more than sixty years together. Had there been sixty more, a thousand more, it would never have been enough. His lover had filled the emptiness in his life, brightened the darkness that dwelled in the abyss of his accursed soul.

He groaned softly, experiencing the deep wrenching pain of his mate's death anew.

"Why, John?"

The question, torn from the depths of his tattered heart and soul, echoed in the evening's stillness.

_Why, why, why..._

He cursed himself for letting him go, and yet, loving him as he did, he'd had no other choice.

"John, stop this. Please come back to me."

The pain of their separation pierced him again, as sharp as it had been the night John had died in his arms.

His hand caressed the cold, dead marble headstone, then came to rest on the slightly damp earth that covered his beloved's earthly remains. But the man he had loved more than his own life was gone. His soul, his cherished essence, had departed the mortal plane, bound for that heaven that is forever denied him.

John.

The other half of his heart... The keeper of his soul…

His solace in a dark and lonely world...

The reason for his laughter...

_John, John, why did you leave me? Was my existence so repugnant you could not share it with me?_

He groaned, deep in his throat, knowing he was being unfair. From the beginning, John had accepted him for the creature that he was. Loved him with every fiber of his being, with every beat of his mortal heart. Whatever anguish he was suffering now was not because of John's decision, but because of who, and what, he was.

Of what he had become.

He sank to the ground, uncaring that the moisture of the earth seeped into his black trousers. Pressing his cheek to the damp grass, he closed his sea-glass eyes, remembering how it all began...

* * *

** London, England 1891**

He had been observing the boy for the last thirteen years; watching, from his beloved shadows, as the cumbersome braces on the slender legs were changed again and again. A flaw in the lower limbs, the doctors said. A limp and weakness that could not be fixed. That was what kept the youth from walking.

He had watched the hope fade from wide blue eyes as the child accepted the fact that he would never run and play like the other boys who lived in the orphanage. Later, as the handicapped child grew older, he had felt the despair as the youth realized that he would probably live out his days alone, with no one to love him, no family to mourn him, or remember him when he was gone.

After all, who wanted a cripple when there were dozens of other children who were... complete in both mind and body.

He was the only one who sensed the true depths of the boy's despair, of his heartache; the only one who knew how the earthed youth yearned to run in the golden light of the sun, to walk in the silver shadow of the moon.

He was the one who heard the sound of muffled tears in the dark of the night. For others, the boy put on a brave face, but alone in his room, he wept bitter tears - tears that ate at his watcher's soul like acid. At the time he had not understood why he had felt and shared this young mortal's grief and sadness. The answer to his puzzlement only came years later when he had finally acknowledged his true feelings for the brave soul that had been born trapped in an imperfect body. Feelings that had begun with the first time he had laid eyes on the mortal and had flourished with the passing years.

He had never intended for the boy to know of his existence. Never. He had been content to only watch over the child, an unseen phantom who shared his loneliness and in doing so, perhaps ease his own.

And so it was that he was lingering in the shadows outside the room late one summer night.

He knew the boy had spent the afternoon, as he usually did, sitting in the park across from the orphanage, watching the other children at play, yearning to join them. He had watched as the couples, both young and old, strolled hand in hand along the tree lined path. He had watched families, mothers, fathers, and children, play together, basking in each other's presence. Yearning for what he knew was denied him simply due to physical flaws he had no control over.

The boy had watched life pass him by.

He had skipped dinner and gone to bed early that evening. However, sleep had not come and the boy had lain awake long after everyone else had succumbed to the lure of Morpheus, unaware of his unearthly watcher. A single candle burned at his bedside, its flickering light feebly attempting to hold the looming shadows at bay. The flame danced in the air, throwing pale shadows over the youthful face.

Now, hovering in the shadows on the balcony, he felt his heart ache. The boy was talking to himself, his voice low and soft, but not so low his nocturnal visitor could not hear it.

"You can do it, John," he gritted, voice tinged with desperate determination. "I know you can. The doctors could be wrong...It could be all in your head…"

For the next few minutes, he watched John struggle to inch his way to the edge of the bed. He watched as he pulled himself to a sitting position, using his arms to scoot himself over to the edge of the bed until his legs dangled over the side, his feet touching the bare floor.

"You can do it," he muttered. Taking a deep breath, he clutched the spiral molded post at the head of the bed and pulled himself to his feet.

For a brief moment, he stood there, his brow shined with perspiration, and then, bravely, he let go of the post.

A mistake.

He bit off a curse as John's legs gave way and the boy dropped to the floor.

"It's hopeless," he murmured, voice thick with despair. "No one's ever going to adopt me." He dashed the silver tears from his eyes. "Or love me. I'll spend the rest of my life in this place and never do any of the things other boys do. I'll never have a family... or a life..."

Using his strong upper arms, John pulled himself back up onto his bed. He sat there for several thick minutes, staring at the floor. His slim shoulders slumped in resignation. His wild, unruly blond hair fell over his forehead, hiding his eyes in dark shadows.

It grieved him to see the boy steeped in such anguish. John had always tried so hard to be cheerful for the others, to be brave. Always putting his best foot forward, proverbially speaking, not letting others see his misery. He was a young boy, on the verge of manhood, yet bound by his own physical limitations. Who could blame him for feeling that life was passing him by?

He longed to go to the dejected youth, to take him in his arms and give the comfort, the reassurance so desperately needed. But he dared not reveal himself to the mortal, dared not risk letting the youth know he was being watched.

He was about to turn away, about to leave the youth to his private grief, when the boy reached under his pillow and withdrew a small brown bottle. The boy stared at the bottle for a long moment, a pensive expression on his face.

And he knew, in that moment, that the boy intended to end his life.

Without thinking of the consequences, he barged into the room.

* * *

John Watson glanced up, startled, as a tall man swept into his bedchamber. He was dressed all in black, from his soft leather boots to the heavy woolen cloak that swirled around him like a dark, looming cloud.

The man gave him a cocky half smile and said quietly, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

His voice was like ebony satin, soft, mesmerizing.

"Don't do what?" John asked, even as he clutched the bottle to his chest.

"Don't take your life," came the quiet answer.

He blinked up at the man, too surprised by his unexpected intrusion into his room, and by his knowledge of what he intended to do, to be alarmed. "W - who are you?!" he stuttered out.

"No one of great importance," the man said, his grin still firmly in place.

John blankly stared at the man, his wide cerulean eyes unwavering, even as his mind started racing with questions. With random selection, his mind picked one of the questions and forced his mouth to utter the words.

"What were you doing out on the balcony?" The thought of how the man had been on the balcony never occurred to him.

The mysterious man gave a slight chuckle before answered with, "Watching you."

That simple answer managed to wrest a response from John. His eyes widened and his body shrank against the pillows, attempting to put as much distance as possible between his defective body and the man in black.

His voice squeaked out with, "Watching me? Why?"

The man continued to grin and answered candidly, "Well, since I've been watching you since you were a child, I have seen no evidence that I should stop."

For some unknown reason, that statement caused John to give a wry grin, a small mixture of both amusement and disbelief. He said dryly, "Does that make you my guardian angel then?"

The man raised his eyebrows and turned his eyes upwards as if seeking the answer in the ceiling. He gave a dry chuckle and said, "Angel? That's not the choice of words that I would use, but I guess you could call me that."

John's own eyebrows were raised as he asked sarcastically, "And is your name Gabriel?"

The man shook his head back and forth and John took in the swinging of soft black curls against the man's forehead. His mind just barely registered the fact that the man had spoken again.

Shaking his head to try and clear the cloud of confusion from it, he asked, "What did you say?"

The man smirked as he repeated himself. "I said I no longer have a name, but if you want to you can call me Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."

John blinked at the man once, and then looked down at his hands, belatedly remembering the brown bottle being clutched by his fingers. He asked, "Well, if you're an Angel, have you come to take me to heaven?"

"No," he answered sadly. "That I could never do."

"To hell then?" came the quick response.

Sherlock shook his head in the negative. On silent feet, he closed the distance between the two of them, and took the bottle from his hand. Too late, John tried to snatch it back.

Sherlock quickly backed away from the bed, shaking the bottle in time with his head. "Uh uh, John." He shoved the bottle into the pocket of his black trousers, eager to get it out of sight and out of mind. "I'll not let you take your own life. Not now. Not ever."

"I have no life," he retorted bitterly. "I've never been anything but a burden. First to my family, and now to the Sisters and nurses who must take care of me."

Sherlock gaped at the young boy before saying, "That's not true."

John looked up at Sherlock, revealing the despair and beginnings of tears in his deep blue eyes. "It's true!" he exclaimed. "Don't you think I know it is? Why else would my mother have abandoned me?"

"John." Sherlock whispered his name, stricken by the depths of the pain in his eyes.

"I'm nothing but a burden," John whispered. "The Sisters say they love me, but I know they'd be relieved if I was gone." John's head angled downwards until his face was hidden from view, his eyes focused on the light quilt in front of him. Sherlock watched silently as several wet drops fell onto the fabric, slightly darkening the frayed material.

Before he realized what he was doing, Sherlock was sitting on the bed, drawing the young boy into his arms. Sherlock held him close, surprised that he didn't pull away. Instead, the young boy burrowed into his arms, his face pressed into his chest, allowing his grief to be comforted for the first time. Sherlock felt his shoulders shake, felt his tears soaking through his shirt, the moisture warm and damp upon the coolness of his skin.

Sherlock held him, rocking the slender body gently, until he fell asleep. And even then he was reluctant to let him go, unwilling to relinquish this slight bond to the mortal plane.

The tall man cradled him to his chest until the first faint hint of dawn brightened the sky. Only then did he lower him to the bed. Sherlock gazed down at John for a long moment, and then drew the quilt over him.

Sherlock pressed a light, fatherly kiss to the boy's forehead, and then was gone, as silent as the sunrise.

* * *

He reached his lair in Cyprus Abbey minutes before the sun climbed above the horizon. Bolting the door behind him, he rested the back of his head against the solid wood, his skin still tingling from the promise of the sun's warmth.

Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what it had been like to walk in the light of day, to welcome the touch of the sun on his face, to bask in its warmth. The smile he had worn before slipped away, now as elusive as the night.

With a muttered oath, he pushed away from the door and crossed the floor. Sinking down in the huge, throne like chair that was the room's only piece of furniture, he stared into the blackness of the hearth.

The boy was in pain and he wanted to end his young life.

_There are all kinds of pain..._ his tired mind thought. John's wasn't physical; it went much deeper than that, piercing his heart, his soul. Tired of hoping and praying, he felt he was a burden to the handful of nuns who ran the London orphanage.

Sherlock's heart ached for him. The child had been born to wealthy parents, but from the day of his birth, the Watson family had been plagued by a constant stream of bad luck. The family's wealth and future lost to them all through a series of bad accidents, had caused John's father to give up, eventually committing suicide in the basement of their home. John's mother, already having lost a daughter, snapped with the loss of both her husband and her home. She fled from the family's last refuge, abandoning her only surviving child, never to be heard from again.

It was no wonder John was so bitter, he mused. Perhaps he should have told the boy that he was the single ray of tangible sunshine in his own miserable existence, that his life had purpose, even if it was only to bring light into one man's... no, one creature's world of darkness.

But he couldn't tell him that. Sherlock couldn't give hope when there was none to give.

As he felt the sun rising, Sherlock felt the faint lethargy that came with the dawn, a lassitude that filled his entire being. Although it wasn't as strong now as it had been over 900 years ago, it was still potent enough to leave him feeling powerless. When he'd first been... made... centuries ago, he had been unable to withstand the overpowering weakness that had come with the sun. He had been left drained of all strength, helpless to resist the calling of the restorative sleep of the undead. However, as the centuries had worn on and he got older, he also became stronger. At first he had reveled in the fact that he could withstand one of the few instinctive callings of his breed, but he had also learned that he was not yet infallible.

The true touch of sunlight on his body still held the promise of death. He feared the sun, the agony of a fiery demise. It was the one and only thing he feared. He had learned that he could withstand the rays of the early morning and late evening sun with a few minor burns, but he was still forced to hide during the hours when the sun was at its peak. However, it would only be a matter of time before he could completely walk in the sunlight with no fear.

As Sherlock allowed his ennui to fill his weary soul, he thought back to those days when he had first awakened to his new life. Those times had been filled with confusion and frustration. The lust for mortal's blood had filled him with self - loathing, yet the temptation to drink and drink and drink had been too strong to resist.

His hearing, sharpened to new heights of awareness, had been bombarded with noise previously unheard. His vision had taught him to be more careful of where he cast his eyes, to avoid prying too closely into the menial lives of those around him. However, the toughest of his new abilities had been the psychic gifts. It took him decades to learn to completely shut out the thoughts of others, to regain his sense of inner quiet, previously taken for granted. Yet, it was in the receiving of these new gifts that he had become like a child. Faced with these new... toys... he had tested the limits of his powers, his endurance. But in the testing, he had needlessly brought pain and death to those fragile mortals who had crossed his path.

Filled with loneliness, with no companion, mortal or immortal, to accompany him, he had left his homeland and wandered throughout Earth, always searching for a new haven, for a new place to call home. In time, he had learned to control his blood lust, to control the need. Taking only what he needed and leaving his victim unaware of the slight loss. It still disgusted him that he must take the life's blood of others to sustain his own existence. However, he had accepted it. It was either that, or go utterly mad.

And an insane vampire was a doomed vampire.

Sherlock slumped down into his chair, shrouded in the darkness that was his constant companion, with his bleak thoughts as company. For centuries he had prowled the earth, content to wander aimlessly, caring for no one and letting no one care for him. At least, until the loneliness became unbearable.

It was only then that he had fully accepted what he was and then turned to the next step.

To find himself a mate. To find the special someone who would see past the monster he had become to the man he had once been.

He'd had no trouble for companionship over the millennia. He needed no reflection in a mirror to remind himself that he was still a virile male in his early peak. When he had been changed, he had been a young rebellious youth of 34 years. Although young by the standards of today, he had been considered a man in the time period of his birth, mortal life spans being considerably shorter way back then. His eyes were a gray glass that rivaled that of the purest silver, cool and deep, twinkling with hidden knowledge acquired over the years and the spark of youth that not even his great level of cynicism could destroy. His face was pleasant enough, his lips full and sensuous, cheekbones held high and hollow.

He'd had no trouble finding women, or men for that matter. He did not really care about the actual gender of the person, rather the external and internal beauty of the subject. He found both forms pleasing and arousing. He had had many companions over the years, both male and female, highborn or low. Each eager to please and shower him with affection, until they discovered his true nature and what he was. Some turned away in disgust, some in horror. It didn't matter, it was all rejection and it all caused blows to his heart. Eventually he had given up on trying to find a mate and took solace in brief relationships, often fleeing before his companion could figure out what he was.

But even these shallow, temporary solutions had tired and he had grown heartily sick of his existence. He had several times in the recent history been tempted to succumb to the death that beckoned sweetly.

Thirteen years ago had been such a time. He had been on the very edge of sanity, willing to jump off the cliff and destroy himself. He had been sorely tempted to walk straight into the sunlight, to feel the sun's rays on his face one last time before it destroyed him.

That had been the night he had seen John for the first time, a small, blond haired child no older than two, huddled in the corner of an empty room.

He had been crying softly, as if he was afraid of disturbing the quiet of the night, and the sound, so filled with sorrow, had drawn him out of his shell of misery and self pity. He had followed the sound of tears until he had come to an elegant manor house in the upper echelons of society's finest in London.

He had stopped crying the instant Sherlock had picked him up, staring at him through dark blue eyes filled with tears. And then John had smiled at him, a sweet, innocent smile filled with trust. Sherlock had at that moment vowed to protect the boy as long as he lived. For once, his life had meaning again.

He had searched endlessly though the house for the child's mother, but had found not a trace of the woman. In fact, the house had an empty, un - lived in feeling to it, the furniture being covered in white sheets, the closets empty.

It was only later that he had learned young John's story. That John had been the only surviving son of a woman and that the woman had fled her home in the middle of the night. The neighbors had assumed the child had been with her.

It was that same night that Sherlock had decided to take John to the orphanage run by the Sisters of Eternal Light. When he had handed the young boy over to the nuns, he had stared up at Sherlock, his little face looking sad, as if he realized he would never see him again.

His heart lost to the young child, he had been watching over him ever since...

* * *

** London, England 2010**

Sherlock sat basking in the warmth of the sun, an action that had once eluded him, so long ago. However, he had found upon his recent awakening that the sunlight no longer had an adverse effect on him. It was then that he had remembered that his 1000th birthday had come and gone in the time he had remained oblivious to the world. As Sherlock opened his eyes to look up into the atmosphere of the sky, his thoughts took a meandering course of his recent past.

Many changes had been wrought upon humanity since he had gone to ground half a century ago. Upon rising from his fifty - five year rest, he had spent weeks reading newspapers and magazines -and a new, delightful device known as the "internet",-from the world over in an effort to bring himself up to date.

His first instinct initially after he awoke had been to leave London, not being able to cope being in a city that held so many memories of John. But he couldn't bring himself to leave, having traveled the world and back again, London was the only place he felt at peace. A miserable part of him acknowledged John would not want him to leave him either.

His Sire brother, Mycroft, having not seen nor heard of Sherlock in so many decades, had immediately set him up a new home; the manor he had once shared with John was long since condemned, despite him owning property rights. Sherlock stoutly refused his brother's assistance, instead setting himself up temporarily in a smaller flat, until he located one closer to downtown London on his own.

So he, over the course of five years, became acclimated back to society. Its many technologies (mobile phones, computers, and distractingly large vehicles running on roads that once held horses and carriages) both baffled and fascinated.

He started his enterprise again, consulting detective work. Despite times changing, criminals and crime never went out of style and over the course of those five years, he had managed to endear himself to the Detective Inspector's (known as Lestrade) good graces, finally finding cases and crime to both distract and focus him.

And here Sherlock sat, perched on a wooden stool at Bart's Hospital, fingers delicately clasped around the dials of a microscope (its technology had only advanced in the time—and new scientific advancements thrilled him).

Down the linoleum hall he heard the familiar timbre of a doctor's voice, walking along side someone with an awkward gait. As quick as the observation was made, Sherlock dismissed it as irrelevant, his mind wandering away from his Work as it so often did these days.

He reached up with his hand and pulled a slender silver chain from underneath his shirt. Dangling from the end of the chain were two rings, a matched set. The soft light of the lamp above him glinted off of the thin gold bands as he slowly twirled them in his hands. He didn't need to focus on the inside of the bands to remember what he had had inscribed on each.

**S&J, love for always**

Together for always... yet he was alone.

John had been dead for more than half a century, yet Sherlock felt his loss as keenly as if he had passed away only the day before.

John. If he had ever regretted his decision to spend his life with Sherlock, he had never admitted it.

As the years had begun to take their toll, Sherlock had begged him to accept the Dark Gift, but he had steadfastly refused. He had watched his lover grow old, watched his hair turn gray and his blue eyes grow dim while he stayed forever young. And yet, Sherlock had loved him till the day he had died, loved him wholly and completely. Toward the end, when he knew John had only hours left, Sherlock had begged him to pray for him, to ask whatever deity he believed in to be merciful to him.

They had shared 60 years together before he had died in Sherlock's arms. Even then, John's last thought had been for him. Remembering how alone Sherlock had been when he first came to him in the orphanage, John had implored Sherlock to forgive him for leaving him behind, had urged Sherlock to find someone else to love.

Sherlock had buried his lover in a serene spot behind the manor, in the coffin he had never used. And because Sherlock could not bear to leave him there, alone in the darkness, because he could not bear to face the world without his mate, Sherlock had taken care of his financial affairs, sold all his property save the manor, and then burrowed into the ground beside the casket that held his remains. Sherlock had slept there for over fifty years, sleeping away the years in the hope that the pain of his loss would have lessened when he emerged again.

It had been a futile hope. Sherlock had risen to a changed world, but his grief had remained the same.

He had been tempted to end his existence, to walk into the sunlight, if it meant he could have rejoined his beloved in the afterlife, in heaven. But he knew that nothing good awaited him when his existence finally ended. The best he could hope for was eternal darkness; his worst fear was that he would find himself in the bowels of an endless, fiery, unforgiving hell.

And then he had learned that sunlight no longer affected him. Sherlock found he didn't have the courage to strike his own breast with a wooden stake. So the only choice left was to go on living, with only half a soul.

Upon rising from the earth, he had spent a month in the manor house, long since condemned and utterly empty, and the loneliness, the knowledge that John was forever gone, had weighed heavily upon him. The torment had been unbearable as he walked through rooms that had once been brightened with John's laughter, knowing that he would never return. He had arranged with a lawyer to handle his financial affairs as needed, and closed the manor down, fleeing.

He had spent his last night kneeling at John's gravesite, bidding him a last farewell as he relived the precious memories of their first meeting. And then he had fled. Fled from the loneliness and from the grief.

Everywhere he had gone, he had been subjected to the changing times and ideals. Empires had crumbled, civilizations had disappeared, new cities had been created, allies had become enemies and enemies had become allies. Wars still tore apart the world. There had been much to learn, and for a time he had managed to bury his grief. But the emptiness still remained.

Sherlock shook his head to clear it from his morbid thoughts, tucking the rings carefully back into his shirt, blinking away his grief. The old, familiar hunger had begun to gnaw at his insides.

That, at least, had not changed.

The two human bodies outside the door grew closer and Sherlock felt his lip curl in an irritated snarl. He was attempting to focus on a case, the body Molly held down at the morgue would need checking on shortly, and he did not need the distraction.

Before the door had opened, Sherlock carefully ran his tongue over his teeth, lightly brushing against the overly sensitive canines. The recognizable frame of Mike Stamford entered, followed by a second, unknown body.

Sherlock caught a glance. A heartachingly familiar crop of short blonde hair, the familiar straight posture of a soldier. The face that stared back at him was strong, but handsome; features that repeatedly haunted Sherlock in his dreams.

There, giving him a non committal look from bright blue eyes, was John Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

_John? What the hell…?_

Sherlock's body remained immobile, frozen in shock, yet his mind was already racing to find a way to rationally explain why the man in front of him had the face of his long dead lover. The more logical side of his mind whispered silently, _It's just coincidence. He just shares the same basic features, that's all._

Even as rationality tried to reassert itself over the vampire's consciousness, Sherlock could feel the ashes of hope start to smoulder with newly awakened hope.

_John…_

Lost in the swirling mass of confusion and shock that resembled his thoughts, Sherlock barely registered the irritatingly nasal voice of Mike Stamford.

"... my friend, John Watson..."

_... the same name? What are the odds of that?_

"... looking for a flat share too..."

_Is this real? Or is fate just mocking my pain once more, dangling an intangible prospect in my face, only to snatch it away in one cruel blow?_

"... he's a doctor and he's..."

_John... I've missed you so much, lover._

"... I'll leave you to get acquainted; I thought it might be a good match. I've got to pop off."

Sherlock gave a small chin nod in assent to Mike, his eyes refusing to move from the man in front of him. His mind barely registered the sound of the door closing, his brain too drunk from the physical apparition in front of him. His eyes greedily ran over the man's every aspect and feature, imprinting them on his mind's eye.

The two men in the lab, silent and still but for the necessary breaths of life on the part of one and the equally necessary illusion of breath on the other. Silence started to turn into tension, as neither man spoke, one unwilling to break the spell so carefully woven, afraid of shattering the illusion, the other obviously unaccustomed to such awkward silence.

Finally Sherlock wet his dry lips and whispered, "John..."

It was the barest of sounds, yet the blond man in front of him managed to catch the word. Sherlock kept his expression unwavering, a perfect mask of indifference, as he assessed the man in front of him. "Yes?" John answered in a cautious tone.

Sherlock's heart flinched at the familiar voice, but he pressed onwards with his question. "Do you... know me?"

A few seconds passed in silence before the other man nodded, "Yes."

Sherlock's soul soared as hope started to come alive in his breast. The half of his heart that had been locked away over half a century ago began to throw off the shackles and break the locks, while the other half that had been destroyed began to stir with a new fire, a new life.

However, as quick as the ascension was, so too was the descent.

"You're Sherlock Holmes, Mike told me you're a detective of some sort? Mentioned you have a flatshare?... It is still available, yeah?" John's mouth tilted in a quirked smile, still guarded and unsure.

Unpleasant shock ran through Sherlock's system, threatening overload. His already twisted and tormented soul faltered under this new blow. Fate seemed to be mocking him, laughing outright in the face of his misery and pain. Tormenting him with a man who looked like his dead lover, but was not his soul mate.

Or was he? He wasn't entirely certain. And in what only measured in mere seconds for John, Sherlock scanned over the man before him for what felt was several hours, before coming to a tentative conclusion.

This could not be his dead lover. This was a wraith. A projection of his tortured mind. Possibly a demon spirit from another realm sent to drive him mad.

_He's not John, he's a shade. A trick. False._

_But he's there, RIGHT there...Look at him...what if he is John?... John... I miss you..._

He had to find out, had to be sure.

He held out his hand, casually. "Might I borrow your phone? No signal down here for me."

* * *

John Watson settled into the plush, relaxing armchair, unsure of what to do in such a cluttered flat. A methodical, finicky part of him had to resist the urge to start tidying straight away, despite it not officially being his home yet. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, tutted away at Sherlock as the tall man paced endlessly, excited at the prospect of a serial killer. Well, Mike had mentioned the man was a detective, perhaps it wasn't as unusual or worrying as it had seemed.

John leaned forward, reaching for the newspaper shuffled on the coffee table. He noticed it was four days old, but it hardly mattered, he just needed the distraction.

He'd had been acutely aware of the strained silence between him and Sherlock Holmes although the reason for it was lost to the doctor. He had begun to doubt Mike's judgment that the two of them would even be compatible as casual acquaintances, much less flatmates.

But as he approached Baker's Street, he found himself feeling at ease. Yes, he could see himself living here. The location was wonderful, the street was fairly quiet and the rent was ideal. For those alone, he could live with a stranger for a while. Until he got a proper job and saved up, possibly being able to purchase a house in the near future.

Besides, he had lived with dozens of men in the army, in 45 degrees Celsius and in tents. Out right torture some days, but he managed. So yes, 221 B could do.

He needed a proper space, a proper home. Living in-between hotels and bed-sits was beginning to drain on him. He found it more and more difficult to relax, to think and to sleep.

Because the nightmares had started.

There was initially, a rhyme and reason to his nightmares, having gone through the trauma of both being shot in combat and watching comrades bleed out on the sand. But then other sparse images had begun to arise, an unknown horror spread through his entire being.

Unknown terror, followed quickly by a sense of loss... or sorrow... and then completed by a warm glow that intoxicated his entire soul, leaving it yearning for more, only to feel bereft when John woke up to the harsh reality that was his world. Floods of unnamed and foreign emotions would pour through his being, subjecting him to strange feelings that were difficult to process, but impossible to destroy.

John never told anyone, even his therapist, about the dreams. He was disappointed in himself for not being stronger, for falling into the seemingly cliché world of a traumatized veteran. So he kept silent, and let his nightmares remain a private affair, hoping they would go away with time.

Instead, the nightmares had begun to intensify, rather than fade, the images becoming sharper and growing in detail. He had hoped to be able to shake them off, but that dream was proving to be feeble. Now he just wished they'd hurry up and conclude, and then hopefully leave him be, freeing up his sleep.

John dragged his consciousness from his inner thoughts and mused on his current situation.

"How about a nice cuppa?" The elderly woman smiled sweetly, patting his shoulder and further grounding him into reality.

He nodded, clearing his throat, shuffling the pages in his hands. "Yes, thank you, a cuppa would be lovely. Couple of biscuits if you've got any."

"Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper!" She called down from the stairs. John gave himself a small smile, he didn't often get to interact with people these days.

"You're a doctor."

He glanced up to Sherlock who was fidgeting with his gloves, padding down the creases and tugging incessantly. His iridescent gray eyes were calculated, betraying nothing.

John nodded and stood, gripping his cane, bringing himself to a straight height. "Yes."

"In fact, you're an army doctor."

John gave an affirmative noise, waiting for the question.

The cool gray eyes regarded him steadily. "Any good?"

* * *

And somehow, with a flurry of once long lost adrenaline and the stumbling of stairs, he found himself in the cab with Sherlock, driving to a destination unknown. As the adrenaline began to die down, he worked his jaw nervously, doubt creeping in.

"You've got questions." Sherlock stated, his tone unyielding.

"Yeah, where are we going?" He responded quickly.

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Crime scene, right. Because you're a detective, yeah? Are you police?"

"_Consulting_ detective, only one in the world. I invented the job. And no, not police."

John gave a rap of fingers against the curve of his cane, clicking his jaw again. "But that policeman was in the flat just now."

Sherlock didn't nod, instead regarding the soft glow of streetlights beyond the window. "Hm, that was Lestrade. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"But the police don't consult… Amateurs."

For a brief moment John felt a thrill of fear course up his spin, spindling around his nape. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in on him, and John resisted the urge to narrow his back, in a challenge.

"When we were at the lab at Bart's, I said Afghanistan or Iraq and you seemed surprised."

"Yeah, how did you know? Mike only said I was a doctor."

"Oh now, I wouldn't need to know from Mike to clearly see you are a doctor, trained at Bart's. Well-kept ambidextrous hands, a physical trait ideal for a surgeon. The comfortable way you eased into the medical lab. Military, obvious, given your hair cut and the way you hold yourself. Your T-shirt under the jacket has creases as well, creases from being neatly folded with trained military precision and packed into a duffle bag, repeatedly I might add, which indicates you move a lot. A small duffle bag by the way you also felt the need to roll up your shirt after folding."

John snapped his jaw shut, which he hadn't realized was hanging open in awe. "That is… amazing."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep steady breath, before turning to him, eyes softened. "You think so?" He asked quietly.

"Yes, absolutely. Bloody brilliant."

"But then there's your limp."

John's brow knitted together, "My limp?" He asked, finding himself oddly defensive.

Sherlock continued, "Yes, clearly psychosomatic. It's really bad when you walk, but just now in the flat when you stood it's almost like you'd forgotten about it. The events which caused it were clearly traumatic."

"I was shot." John said with a shrug and a smile. He glanced up at Sherlock and swallowed, as the man's face had turned dark. Usually he could get away with his morbid sense of humor, but it seemed Sherlock did not appreciate it.

"Who shot you, John?" Came the curt response. Sherlock's gaze was intense upon him.

John barked a laugh and shook his head, attempting to relieve the tension in the cab. "Well, I didn't exactly get a _name_, Sherlock. It was war, I got shot, it happens. I signed up for the possibility."

"Yes, well. I am glad you're alright." Sherlock's throat worked hard and John tensed, wondering where this sudden emotion was stemming from. Sherlock hadn't seemed like the… concerned, considerate type. Maybe he had misread him.

"I could help you with that. Your limp." He added as John's hand worked his cane in a nervous fidget.

"Oh yeah?" John smiled, shifting in the back of the cab. "Consulting detective by night, psychoanalyst by day?"

"I've helped someone before, in a similar circumstance."

"Oh yeah? Who was that?"

The cab stopped as if abruptly commanded, and Sherlock opened the door gracefully, indicating the street. "This is us."

* * *

**London, England 1891**

For John, the hours of the day passed with agonizing slowness. Bound to his chair by his physical limitations, there were not many activities he could do to pass the time. He had little companionship, as there were not many boys at his age of now 16 at the orphanage. He loved to read, and painting was one of his hidden passions, but both were leisurely activities, neither of which helped the time to pass swiftly.

Sometimes one or more of the Sisters would come and pass a short time period with him, but more often than not the nuns were too busy with activities around the orphanage to devote all their time to one of their tenants. Not that it mattered, for John yearned for nothing more than a swift end to the daylight hours.

For Sherlock would come with the darkness.

John was the only boy in the orphanage who had his own room, a fact that had gone unappreciated until now. The nuns had made excuses that it was because John was the oldest of the children at the orphanage, and that it was difficult to carry his chair up and down the winding stairs of the aging building. But John knew better. They had given him his own room because most likely he would be spending the rest of his life in their care. A sad fact, but one that John had quietly accepted years ago as he watched one child after another leave the nuns and the orphanage for a new life.

It had hurt at first. It had been painful to watch as one couple after another came to the home, only to pass him by with hardly a thought when they realized he was crippled. John didn't blame them for wanting younger children, youngsters whose thoughts and values could be molded to fit those of their adopted parents. Nor could he blame them for wanting children who were whole.

But it had hurt just the same.

But what did it matter now? Now he had a companion who came with the shadows of the night, to fill the darkness up with the light that was missing from the day.

John sat in his bed, a single candle illuminating his small but comfortable room. He heard the clock in the hall chime the hours, heard the muffled voices of the nuns as they herded the other children to their beds.

Gradually the house fell silent. A few hours passed, each marked with the solemn chimes of the hall clock. John frowned as he realized the growing lateness of the hour.

Questions flew through his mind, doubts beginning to sprout. Had he forgotten? Or simply changed his mind? Maybe he had never meant to come again and had neglected to tell him.

John was about to extinguish the light and lose himself in the oblivion of his dream world when he felt a breeze whisper past his cheek. Glancing over his slim shoulder, he saw a now familiar shape outlined against the veranda doors.

"Sherlock! You came!"

The familiar lilt filled the room, casting warmth where coldness had once roamed. "I said I would, didn't I?"

He nodded his blond head with enthusiasm as he patted the side of his small bed in welcome.

Needing no further invitation, the man glided into the room and sat carefully on the bed, mindful of its current occupant. He turned and smiled at the boy, his silver eyes sparkling and luminous, catching and holding a matching set of blue. Helpless to resist, John gazed into his depths.

Fathomless eyes that seemed to see into his soul and beyond.

Eyes that were filled with an immeasurable anguish that went much deeper than sorrow.

Abruptly, Sherlock rose to his feet, as if he feared that John had seen more than he should. With a fluid movement, he reached into the black cloak he habitually wore, his hand reappearing with a small, furry object.

"For you," he said.

John's eyes lit up, even as he gazed at the childish object. Eagerly reaching for it, he clutched the teddy bear close to his chest, holding it tightly like it was his most cherished possession. He raised eyes bright with happiness and said, "I love it. Thank you so much!"

The bear was perfect, not a strand of fur matted or marred. The black eyes were proportioned correctly, placed above an adorable button nose. A broad red ribbon encircled the bear's neck, neatly tied in a charming bow.

Although the bear was probably meant for a young girl, or at least a younger child, John still cherished it. Cherished it because it was one of the few presents he had ever received, but cherished it more so because it came from HIM.

Sherlock's expression filled with some emotion that John had never before seen on the man's face, one that filled his soul with a tenderness and a yearning for something he didn't understand. Yet, even as John attempted to understand the newly created emotions raging through his system, his subconsciousness realized that Sherlock was moving to go for the night.

Desperate to keep the tall man with him for a bit longer, he tentatively asked a question. "Could you tell me a story?" came the innocent request.

"I'm not much of a story teller," Sherlock remarked and then, seeing the disappointment creeping into the blue eyes, he acquiesced with a slight nod. He settled back onto the bed, John's smaller body cuddled up close like the teddy bear the boy still clutched in his arms.

"Many, many years ago there was a young man. He came from a very large family, but a very poor family. He was fifteen when a mysterious illness rampaged through his village, claiming the lives of everyone. The young man was the only survivor and he had to leave his home.

"For many years, he traveled the land, and then, when he was four and thirty, he met a Woman, and for the first time in his life, he fell in love. So much in love that he never questioned who she was, or why she would only see him at night.

"And then one day he contracted a fever, and he knew he was going to die the same horrible death that had claimed each of his family members. Though he was loathe to admit it, he feared death.

"The Woman he loved came to him, and he, weeping from pain and fear, begged her to save him.

"'I can do it,' she said, 'I can do as you wish, but the price will be dear.'

"'Anything,' he said.

"'And if the price is your soul, will you still pay it?'

"Foolish man that he was, he agreed. And the Woman, whom he had first believed to be an angel, carried him away and entrapped him in a dance of darkness. When he woke up again, he realized he'd struck a bargain, not with an angel, but with a devil. And though he would now live forever, he would never live at all."

"I don't understand," John said frowning. "Who was the man? Who was the woman? How could he live forever, but not live at all?"

"It's only an old fairy tale, John," Sherlock answered, his voice soft with remembered regret.

John turned his gaze up to Sherlock, gazing at his profile, seeing a proud warrior in tarnished armor, a quiet soul burdened with memories of the past. He had no idea how long he stared at the man before he realized that Sherlock had stopped talking.

Their eyes locked and held for an immeasurable count of minutes before Sherlock suddenly surged to his feet. Sherlock reached for his cloak that he had tossed off, the dark wool swirled around him like the fog of a dark night, and then he was gone.

"Sherlock?" John blinked several times, wondering if he had, indeed, dreaming the entire scenario. However, the solid, yet soft, presence of the bear in his arms denied that thought. He brought the bear up to his cheek, nuzzling the soft fur.

He hadn't imagined it.

* * *

Sherlock melted into the rising mists of darkness, welcoming the cold of the night. He had told the boy of his beginnings, a brief recount of the events of his mortal life, and the child had stolen into his heart, catching a glimpse of Sherlock's long denied soul. Surely the boy had seen the darkness there, the emptiness that was deeper and blacker than any creature whispered about.

Why hadn't the child been afraid?

Others, countless dozens who had come before, had looked in his eyes and run away in fear. Those who had not run fast enough, or far enough, had paid the price with their lives. Still, there were always those who had been enraptured with his unusual orbs, who dared to dance the waltz with death. But they had all done so with hints of fear, searching for the ultimate thrill.

Why hadn't this one been afraid?

Sherlock could feel anger rising in him, and with it the lust for blood, the urge to kill and drown himself in mindless violence. He tried to ignore the call to hunt, but on this particular night, the hunger would not be denied.

Growling under his breath, he prowled the nearly deserted streets until he found what he was looking for. A homeless drunkard lying in the stinking refuse of the streets, forgotten blight on humanity, lying unconscious in an alleyway.

Like the angel of death, he hovered over the man. His black cloak, chosen just for this purpose, shrouded them both in a darkness as silent as death.

* * *

Sated, yet filled with self loathing for the animal he was, Sherlock stormed into the long - neglected monastery where he had made his home for the past thirteen years. It was dark and gloomy inside, the perfect dwelling for a creature of darkness such as he.

He had found it ironic at first, that one as cursed as he should dwell within the once sacred walls. That a place that had been the home of hundreds of righteous, God - fearing men should now be inhabitated by one of the fallen.

However, a question still remained on his busy mind, overshadowing all other thoughts.

Why hadn't he been afraid?

He dropped into the huge, high - backed chair he had taken for his own. For the first time in decades, he was filled with self - loathing for who and what he was. What right did he have to survive at the cost of another's life? What right did he have to inflict his presence on a child as pure as John? John would be horrified if he knew what manner of creature came to him in the dark of the night.

He stared at the blood that stained his hands. He knew he could not see John again.

* * *

Images flashed through his mind, piercing the cloak of insensibility that often hung over him in sleep. Scattered images of dancing flames, of woman weeping hysterically, of frightened children crying. Pain seared through his consciousness, excruciating, nauseating pain.

He fought through the layers of oblivion, his gaze opening on darkness. Immediately he was aware that it was still daylight outside, and for a second of thought he lay in his coffin, confusion running rampant through his mind. Never before had anything save the threat of destruction disturbed his sleep, the heavy lethargy that weighed him down in the light of day.

_John!_

Sherlock knew in that moment that the boy's life was in danger, that the pain he had felt had been John's pain. His hands clenched at his sides as he tried to rise. It was like trying to claw his way out of quicksand, impossible to do yet imperative to try. However, he failed, and he fell back, breathing heavily, fear making his heart beat fast.

**_John!_**

His mind screamed the name, as if the pure force behind the one word could cause the sun to hide, allowing the night precedence. The boy was hurt, perhaps even dying, and there was nothing he could do until the safety of the evening fell.

He had never before felt so helpless, yet his thoughts were on the other even as the darkness began to drag him back. Whispering a quick prayer up to the forsaken heavens, he beseeched the powers above to spare the boy's life.

"Please, please, please."

He repeated that single word, over and over again, even as he slipped into oblivion.

* * *

Sherlock vaulted the wall of the orphanage with ease, crossed the grounds as silent as a shadow. Pausing on the veranda door, he peered inside. John lay beneath a heavy quilt, as still as death.

The complete absence of sound within the room echoed in his heart like thunder.

A wave of his hand and the window doors opened, allowing him to step into the room. Once inside the familiar walls, he rushed to John's side.

He silently gazed down at the boy, his face filled with compassion and pity. The blistered skin on boy's arms, his hands. Sherlock drew the quilt back, tears welling in his gray eyes as he took in the ugly burns on the boy's slender chest, his torso, and his legs. Miraculously, the boy's face had been spared, the lovely portrait the only unmarked area on the boy's body.

He moaned then, a soft cry of agony that tore at the very edges of Sherlock's soul. Sherlock placed his fingertips against the pulse in John's throat, a ragged breath catching in his own. The pulse was so very faint, so very slow. It was clear, especially to one who was an expert in such matters.

John was dying.

Sherlock gritted his teeth together even as one word escaped his lips. "No!"

He could not allow the boy to die, he dared not. John had been the only reason for his continued existence, his only link back to the world when he had been on the verge of self destructing. If the boy died, Sherlock knew he would be soon to follow.

Without stopping to think of right or wrong, without pausing to consider the ramifications or consequences, Sherlock opened the vein in his wrist, parted the boy's lips, and let his blood drip into John's mouth.

"Drink, John," he quietly urged, even though he knew that John couldn't hear him.

He watched as one drop fell into John's mouth, then a second, followed by a dozen more. How much would be enough to save the boy's life, without forcing him over the brink or making him a Thrall?

When he had deemed that John had had enough, he withdrew his wrist, closing the wound with a quick pass of his tongue and a brief burst of Power. Gathering the unconscious boy in his arms, he sat on the bed, cradling the light form and holding him through the night. It was a simple enough trick to ensure that the room would remain undisturbed, a small outpouring of Power implanting the thought in all minds present to leave the small room alone.

As he finished, he briefly apologized to the boy, even as he delved into John's mind. With growing horror, he realized what had caused the burn marks on the boy's form.

The orphanage had taken a field trip to a small function in a local school, a play of sorts. Once in the building, a small fire had started, one that quickly blazed out of control. John's legs had once again been a hindrance, allowing the fire to burn him before he had been rescued. Sherlock briefly tasted the helplessness that John had felt in the situation, the growing horror as the fire had edged closer, his lungs becoming overpowered by the cloying smoke.

Sherlock broke free from the images, returning to the present. He cradled John's body with a tighter grip, counting down the hours before he would be driven from the small room by the rising sun. Even as he sat there, he listened as John's erratic breathing evened out, the moans of pain becoming fewer in number. Before his very eyes, the sores and burns that marred the young skin were beginning to heal, to become less raw.

He thanked whatever forces had been watching over the boy that his blood was helping. He only prayed it would be enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**London, England 1906 (15 years after the fire)**

John Watson sighed as he stretched his arms skyward, attempting to alleviate the kinks that had built up in the strained muscles. As he stared at the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated on his desk, he felt his hand start to cramp at the thought of filling it all out.

The paperwork resting on his desk was really nothing more than files and current up-to-date insurance forms that needed to be completed for the accounting and personnel departments; nothing that couldn't wait until the dawn of a new day. But then again, filling out the tiny little lines on the forms was so tedious that John didn't really want to consider procrastinating the task. He would eventually have to complete it, and he'd rather do it now than later, since there really was no point in putting it off. He really didn't feel like being hounded after by his boss.

Except that today was his 30th birthday and the others at the hospital had planned to hold a small celebration at a local pub in his honor.

He gave what he felt was an insincere grin as one of the nurses, a young charming brunette named Carol, gave him a wink and a twinkle of fingers at him through the window. She was excited for his birthday party, as small as it would be, and had given him touches of flirtation throughout the day.

He found he could hardly muster the expected excitement about his coming into a new age of adulthood. After all, even though this date was his birthday, it was also the 10 year anniversary of the day he and his mysterious benefactor, Sherlock Holmes, had parted ways.

John, lost in his thoughts, turned to stare out his window at the fading sunlight, reminding himself painfully that this used to be the time when he would be eagerly awaiting the end of the day, for the coming of the night. For with the darkness of evening and the rising of the moon, Sherlock had often visited his small cramped room at the orphanage.

But that had been before the terrible fire had occurred.

And even that disastrous event had brought about a wondrous new path for his life. The fire had acted as a tool of change, ending one miserable existence and replacing it with one filled with light and friendship. For soon after the fire had occurred, Sherlock had come to the orphanage, swept John away from the sympathetic ministrations of the good Sisters, and introduced him to the world outside.

As he watched the setting sun of the present, he mused on the past. It had been a few weeks after moving in with Sherlock that he had first felt the tingling in his legs. From there, sensation had quickly returned to his long dormant limbs, eventually resulting in his regaining control of his legs. For the first time since he could remember, John had been able to walk, skip, jump, and play, just like the other boys at the orphanage. No longer a cripple, he was now physically complete and whole and could rejoin the rest of humanity in their taken for granted freedom.

The joy that had encompassed him after gaining use of his legs had leaked out to catch Sherlock in its embrace as well, the man sharing in his growing delight. There had been no explanation for the sudden physical change in John's body, no reasoning as to why he had no wounds from a fire he had been sure he had been burned by. No logical thinking could explain why his legs had suddenly grown strong enough for him to walk and dance.

At least no logical thinking on his part.

Sherlock had been strangely quiet and reluctant to discuss possible reasons for John's miraculous recoveries. He often quietly encouraged John to drop the subject, to chalk it up as some mysterious, unexplainable miracle of God, or whatever deity John chose to give thanks to. There were times that John could have sworn that he saw something lingering in Sherlock's eyes; a hint to the answers the young boy sought, as well as some dark, nameless emotion that John had never before been privy to. On rare occasions, John thought he saw guilt in Sherlock's eyes, guilt and fear. But those negative emotions were soon wiped away, if they ever existed in the first place, and those lovely silvery eyes usually became filled with light.

It seemed with every new experience that John tasted, Sherlock shared in his revelations and enjoyment. It once occurred to John that it seemed as if Sherlock was living, or reliving, something through John. Every emotion that John felt was amplified in the dark haired man, as if Sherlock had forgotten what it was like to be young and free.

But that of course was ridiculous since Sherlock wasn't that much older than John himself.

Even if something hidden deep in his eyes screamed the contrary.

And yet their happy time together was not to last for eternity it seemed, for all too soon they had parted ways.

John had never questioned why he only saw Sherlock during the evening. He never stopped to think upon the fact that his generous benefactor and friend would disappear with each dawn of the sun and only reappear at the onset of twilight. He had simply accepted it as fact and truth and had adjusted his own schedule accordingly, sleeping away the heat the day and awakening in the late afternoon to enjoy the last moments of the sun. While being able to run and walk in the sunlight was a joy to him, for some reason it had felt empty not being shared with Sherlock.

He filled his time reading medical and science books from the large selection that Sherlock had purchased, often dreaming of one day attending a university, perhaps getting a degree in the field.

Something had been brewing in him, feelings that he had never felt before. He had admitted to himself that Sherlock had become an important part of his life, a pivotal player who had stayed when so many had fled. At that time, he had not been sure what those feelings he felt meant, or how they had grown so strong in the few months he had been with Sherlock. But then he had known Sherlock had been watching over him for much of his life, Sherlock had said as much during that first meeting he remembered.

He was John's guardian angel.

After all, it had been Sherlock who had denied him his earlier attempt at suicide, taking away the bottle of poison which would have granted the invalid boy a quick, merciful death. And Sherlock had comforted him through his sorrow and his self pity, showing him that there were things in his life worth living for. Sherlock had been the one to whisk him away from the orphanage and the dull future that had awaited him there. And it had been with Sherlock that he had taken both his first aided and unaided steps.

However, in his walking alone, he had created a gulf that now separated him and his benefactor. In his walking unaided, his joy had been so overwhelming and encompassing, that in a rare fit of emotions, he had embraced the man and planted a small kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

He had thought nothing of it at the time, but obviously it had been the wrong thing to do.

It hadn't been obvious at the time, but looking back now John could tell that kiss had been the catalyst which had started to push Sherlock away. For some reason, unknown to him, Sherlock had started to distance himself away from John, becoming reticent and secluded. And yet, even though his actions had left John confused and slightly hurt, John had received the feeling that it wasn't something that he had done, necessarily, but rather, it was something that Sherlock had been AFRAID might happen or develop. John had never been able to fathom the reasons behind it, and a few weeks later, it hadn't even been a moot point.

On the evening of John's 20th birthday, Sherlock had announced that he had made provisions for John to attend a prestigious academy. Its discipline had been in the medicinal and science fields, it seemed that Sherlock had been paying attention when John had mentioned wanting to become a doctor. As excited as he had been to finally be able to attend a school with hopes of then attending a medical university, John had also dreaded having to go since it would mean leaving the first real friend he had ever made. A friend that he now admitted he had begun to feel romantically attracted to.

Yet, even though Sherlock was pushing him away, he had been careful to let John know that it wasn't something that John had done wrong. Rather, Sherlock had told the confused young man that he needed to mingle with others his age, to meet those who shared his common interests. But John hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock. He had been frightened at the very prospect. After all, Sherlock was the only constant in his life, the only security he had. But still, their separation had come.

In leaving to school, only a few train trips away from their current dwelling in London, Sherlock had announced he too, was leaving. Traveling, across Europe and Asia, leaving only with promises to write.

He received letters every Monday for several weeks. But when he had attempted to write back to the addresses that were post marked, his letters had always come back with the notation that the address was invalid.

And yet, his bank account, the one Sherlock had insisted on opening for him, was always full. John had felt guilty spending his money when he couldn't even acknowledge his generosity with a note of thanks.

For a short period of time John had refused to spend the funds, but when two months had passed with no withdrawal, he had received a short note from Sherlock on a random Thursday, urging, more like commanding, him to indulge himself.

The note was signed, Love Always, Sherlock. It was the only one he carried with him in his wallet.

The letters stopped after that.

Ten years.

John still couldn't believe how far he had come in ten years. How fast he took to his lessons, learning in months what had taken others years to accomplish. Impossible and miraculous it seemed, yet strangely right. He took to medicine like a fish to water, learning the biology and dynamics of his craft like the back of his hand.

Barely out of the university, he had been snatched up by a prestigious hospital right in the heart of London. Basically he was getting paid, quite well too, to do a job that he loved.

He had done all the things he had ever dreamed of, and still his life was lacking something vital. He wanted to see Sherlock. To show off the fruits of his labors and gifts. More than anything, he wanted to gaze into the depths of those haunted gray eyes, to hear Sherlock speak in his wonderfully smooth tone. Yet, more than anything, he yearned to wipe the elusive sorrow from those eyes, to make Sherlock smile, really smile; to see genuine happiness.

"John?"

John looked up startled as a voice pierced through his musings. He dimly noted in his peripheral vision that the sun had long set and evening had settled upon the earth's surface. His blue gaze fell upon the person who interrupted his thinking, questions in her eyes. Carol.

"I asked if you're ready to go?"

"Yes." John flashed a brief smile. He stood up, ready to join his fellow colleague just as soon as he tucked his paperwork safely away in his desk. It seemed he had wasted his time after all and the paperwork would have to be done tomorrow. Oh well. With that small task done, John and Carol left his office, heading to the local pub for his party.

* * *

Sherlock sat at the back of the tavern, amidst obnoxious hooting and laughter of the energetic men and woman that dwelled there, soaking in their beer and cigarettes. Although he matched his neighbors in their youthful appearances, his own soul, if he still had one left, was considerably older. He stared blankly ahead, silently berating himself on what he was even doing here, musing on the circumstances of his life.

Ten years had passed since he'd sent John to the university. Ten years were but a moment in the life of a vampire, he thought ruefully, yet each day of those years had seemed their own eternity.

Once he had sent John away, the little things he had taken for granted had lost their appeal. He had found no joy in his existence with John gone from him, he had realized too late how much he had relied upon seeing the young man on a day to day basis. And yet, that had been one of the reasons he had sent John away, to protect him from this growing desire to keep the young blond by his side for eternity.

He had fed in spurts; having no appetite he had fed when the hunger had become excruciating, but not before. Only when it had grown unbearable had he slithered from his newly chosen lair to prowl in the night, hunting his sustenance. Each night he had lived on, the ache from missing John growing a little larger.

He had kept running tabs on his little beneficiary, proudly marking each new achievement made by John. He had felt pride and satisfaction at how well John had taken to his chosen field of study.

Ten years... John was now 30 years old, a man grown. He almost matched Sherlock in age, or the age Sherlock had been when he had crossed that gulf between mortality and immortality. But suddenly, Sherlock had known he had to see him again, just once. He wanted to see John in his new life, to see if he was truly happy.

And then Sherlock would go to ground and sleep. Sleep until John's life was over and he was eternally safe from Sherlock's hunger.

At least that's what he had promised himself. That's what he had sworn to himself when he had journeyed back to London.

He'd quietly see John.

Just once, and that was all.

Just once.

And that had been 14 times ago.

He was obsessed. He admitted it willingly to himself. He couldn't leave. He couldn't say goodbye. Even now, when he knew he should leave and never come back, he found himself drawn to wherever John was.

He watched John the first time a month ago, looking tired and quiet, as he left for home after his shift had let out. He was in white scrubs, a medical mask clutched in his hand. He had walked swiftly, Sherlock had admired his confident gait, before catching a cab and signaling to go home.

You've seen him, now go, the little voice in his mind commanded. Yet Sherlock could not obey, would not obey. He couldn't stop thinking of John and he didn't want to stop thinking of him.

He knew something had occurred between the two of them, ten years ago. That had been one of the reasons that he had pushed John away. He had tried to deny the attraction, to dampen the fuse before it could ignite the flames of passion, but he had been too late.

He desired something, someone, for the first time in countless centuries. And for the first time, there was a distinct possibility that the object of his desire also desired him. It was time for the vampire to act upon his whims and take a chance, before it was too late.

* * *

Sherlock stood at the window of the dwelling that he knew to be John's. The small flat was in a quiet neighborhood, the denizens content to keep the peace and respect the privacy of the others. All in all, it was a neighborhood that would have appealed to the human Sherlock had been, and did appeal to the quiet creature that lurked in his deepest heart. He wasn't surprised that John had chosen such a place to live in, this simple display of domestic bliss and harmony.

The vampire stood at John's window as he had so often stood on the balcony at the orphanage, watching him sleep. John had been beautiful as a young child, his youthful face had contained that characteristic sweet smile Sherlock had grown to love. As a young teen, he had been enchanting to look at, his features a brief glimpse of possibility and promise.

However, now, as a young man, his features had strengthened and matured into the sensual grace of adulthood. Confidence had given John a glow and an aura of self worth, a sense of joy that enfolded and attracted others around him, like moths to a flame. He was handsome, a prize bloom among undeserving thorns.

His once boyish, unruly blond hair was cropped short. His cheeks as smooth as ivory but delightfully tanned a golden hue. Those wonderfully deep, sapphire orbs that Sherlock felt he could drown in, moved lightly beneath their fleshy curtains, the lashes light crescents. Although his eyes were closed in repose, Sherlock could picture them open in his mind.

John slept under a light scattering of covers, the warm summer night providing more than enough warmth. Sherlock could see the muscles that lay dormant in powerful arms and legs, strengthened through faithful and diligent training. As Sherlock's eyes made a quick pass around the rest of the room, his eyes almost missed the tattered and worn bear that resided on the dresser.

Sherlock's heart hitched as he saw the evidence that John still thought of him. The young man had kept the present Sherlock had given to him, more than ten years ago, though the bear's fur was now worn and matted, the ribbon in tatters, the nose and eyes dull with the ravages of time. Yet the poor condition of the bear was only symbolic of the amount of affection that John had placed upon the gift, having obviously treasured it since the day he had received it.

Sherlock's attention returned to John, and a deep ache rose inside of his soul. An ache that throbbed with the loneliness of over 950 odd years. A low groan rose in his throat.

950 odd years of solitude, of existing on the fringe of life, sustaining himself at the cost of others' blood. He had studied with the most brilliant minds of humanity and the ages, traveled the world, seen the rise and fall of countless kingdoms and powers. All without being a part of the world of men, of humanity, for more than nine centuries. Times had changed. People had changed, yet he remained the same. Always the same, yet always alone. So afraid to love and let people back into his heart. So afraid to trust...

And this one young man crashed through all those barriers he had once erected to protect himself, destroyed the illusions of solitude and security he had convinced himself he had.

Unable to help himself, Sherlock melded his mind with John's, and there, in the netherworld of sleep, he allowed himself to do what he yearned to do in reality.

He quietly seduced John with his thoughts, molding their dream bodies together and whispering his desire to the one who held his heart.

In the safety of shared dreams, he dared to love again.

* * *

John woke with Sherlock's name on his lips, his skin damp, his breathing labored. His whole being was filled with a languorous sense of warmth and fulfillment, a feeling that had eluded him for the past ten years.

John could feel the blush that burned his cheeks as the memory of his dream surfaced in his mind. He had been dreaming of Sherlock, not that that was something new, dreaming that the taller man had been making love to him.

Sherlock's hands had been hot and impatient as they caressed his body, his voice raw with desire. His lips had scorched pathways of liquid fire down John's throat, chest, and abdominal regions. John could remember the feel of Sherlock's teeth at his neck, the heat of his tongue as he laved the pulse at his throat. And Sherlock's eyes… they had burned with an all consuming fire, searing away all thought but the desire to please him and to be pleased by him.

All in all, it had been the most real, and the most provocative wet dream he had ever had.

Not that that had been a bad thing.

No, not bad at all.

John took a deep breath, meant to steady his jumpy nerves, when his nostrils were suddenly filled with Sherlock's unique scent, that tantalizing mixture of musk and twilight. A scent that he had not sensed for ten years, yet here it was as clear as day.

Startled, John bolted upright in his bed, clutching the sheet tightly in both fists.

"A dream," he murmured to himself, even as his gaze peered into the dark corners of his room. "That's all it was. A dream... not real."

Even as he continued to quietly reassure himself that the terribly erotic dream and the rioting sensations had not been real, merely a production of his deepest, forbidden fantasies, the doctor couldn't quite shake the feeling that Sherlock had indeed been there.

* * *

Not good. Very much not good.

Back at his current situation in the pub, this thought flew through Sherlock's mind like an arrow to its target. His gray eyes narrowed in consternation and suspicion as he watched a young woman lace her hands intimately around John's neck, giggling and acting more intoxicated than she truly was. In fact, Sherlock had observed her tipping her alcoholic beverage into John's, supplying him with more liquor than he knew he was consuming.

John seemed to be enjoying her company. She held graceful, impossibly long legs and a large bosom to boot. John seemed to be enjoying himself very much indeed.

The thought that John might be intimate with this mortal filled the vampire with a monstrous rage.

Every time they caressed or touched one another, he wanted to rip the woman's hands away from John's body, tempted beyond belief to tear her to shreds. He guiltily indulged in the brief, gory fantasies of clawing the flesh from her pretty young face until nothing remained.

As questionable as these impulses were, Sherlock knew in his heart that he wouldn't harm the woman, because of John. She was obviously special to John, though if the reasons were platonic or went deeper had yet to be revealed, and Sherlock would never do anything to cause intentional grief or sorrow to the orphaned doctor.

Even if it was killing him inside to watch a relationship bloom between the two mortals.

He could force John to love him. The knowledge was there, tempting and beckoning his darker side. He could hypnotize him with his Power, so that John would do anything he asked of him. The vampire could even take John's blood, binding the other to him for as long as John's natural life existed. John would be his slave then, a Thrall, mindlessly adoring, obediently doing whatever he asked. The young doctor would live for him, begging the vampire to take his blood; even willingly die for him, if Sherlock but said the word.

But Sherlock didn't want a slave. He could have hundreds, thousands, of those. He wanted devotion, love, freely given.

Sherlock was filled with his own disgust at himself, ashamed of the cowardice that ran rampant through his soul, keeping him from confronting his young ward openly.

In his own lair, a small complex that he had recently purchased in the London, he would restlessly and endlessly prowl through the nearly empty rooms.

He had sent John away from him, in order to make a life for himself, and that is what his ward had done. John had dreamed of being a doctor, to help those in need, to cure, to aid, to heal.

He had a flat of his own, friends, and a young woman who obviously cared for him on some level.

What need did John have for an ancient, bored-with-life, vampire?

* * *

John smiled as he said goodbye to his rugby mates and co-workers, his bright eyes shining with the residual traces of adrenaline remaining from his buzz from the alcohol and energy of the pub.

He allowed his gaze to scan over the heads of the enthused patrons; his mind moving a hundred clicks per minute even as he continued to smile at Carol, her head canted to the side as she looked at him in confusion and hurt.

She had invited him back to her flat, none too subtly, as she rubbed her thigh against his, flashing her perfect teeth. He had begged off, stating tiredness and an early morning and she had back off quickly, face blushing red with embarrassment.

It wasn't entirely a lie. He was tired. He did have an early morning. But he was still thinking about his previous nocturnal experience; his vaguely disturbing, yet highly arousing, dream. He had awoken in a sensual haze, his lips and flesh eager to feel true caresses from his phantom lover.

Reality had been a cold dose of water, waking alone in his darkened bedroom with nothing more than a lingering hint of twilight and musk on the airwaves. The spring breeze had obviously tempted his senses; inner desires previously hidden were becoming unearthed once more. After all, Sherlock couldn't be in London, right? He was in Asia, or possibly the Americas. His guardian was surely beyond his reach, hightailing it around the world in the far reaches.

Just as that thought passed through his mind, John's gaze fell upon a shadowed figure that danced just on the horizon of his vision. His eyes widened in recognition as he caught a brief glimpse of a long, woolen cloak, snaking out the back door.

He was drunk. He knew this. And he blinked disbelieving. It couldn't...It wasn't...

His body moved involuntarily forward, as if gravitating towards the fleeting image of his absent guardian.

* * *

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Sherlock's mind screamed at him even as his body disobeyed its direct orders. He was keeping to the shadows, moving quickly away from the pub, finding himself several blocks away. With a streak of stubbornness he inherited from his mortal father, his mind continued to rant at him though he heeded it not.

He might have seen you, it taunted him. And you won't be able to convince him of any lie.

"Oh do shut up," he mumbled under his breath, not stopping for a minute to ask himself why he was verbally answering his own mind.

And here I thought the entire point of this visitation was to clear your system of him.

"I am clearing my system of him."

What were you thinking when you invaded his dreams like that?

That question stopped Sherlock in his tracks, bringing his progress to an abrupt halt. He straightened his posture as he mused on his inner debate.

"I don't know. I just had to see him. After all, it's been ten years."

A ten year separation that you desired, if you kindly remember.

"I'm allowed to change my mind, aren't I?"

Not without a good reason. Deduce why.

Sherlock floundered within himself, trying to come up with an excuse that would satisfy his heretofore-unknown split personality residing in his mind. Unfortunately for that part of himself still denying his heart's calling, no reason came to mind except the truth.

"I need him," he whispered, as if spoken louder that tiny declaration would bring forth the wrath of the heavens upon his cursed head.

And?

"And... and... I... I want him," he finished, finally admitting his desire to himself.

You finally admit your desire?

"Desire? No, not just desire. Desire, yes, and lust, oh definitely lust, but also want, and need, and-"

As the wind shifted directions slightly, his keen, inhuman hearing caught sudden distressed cries that were faint and weak, and quickly muffled.

His heart started to pound as he recognized the voice that was uttering the aborted cry.

John!

* * *

John slipped out the back door of the pub, only getting a quick dirty look from the disheveled, grimy cook in the back. He stumbled only slightly, the fuzziness from the alcohol was starting to hit him hard and his vision swam in his head.

He came upon the alleyway, eyes scanning for what he had thought he'd seen. Tall. Cloak. Curls. But there was nothing and no one. He blinked away the disappointment, berating himself for thinking he'd seen Sherlock. It was just a drunken fantasy.

With that, he started walking home alone, though luckily the night was pleasant enough to be in, and the route home should have been well lit. However, being alone, he was left with nothing but his own thoughts for company. And sadly, his own musings weren't very entertaining since they kept circulating in a futile whirlwind of thoughts that always came to rest upon one subject, Sherlock.

Lost in his bout of self-pity and consternation over his obsession with his missing guardian, John never heard the series of footsteps falling in behind him.

Just as he was walking past a dark alleyway between two tall buildings, John's hearing finally heard the footsteps, but it was too late. He was literally jerked from his thoughts and his footing by a rough shove, his body propelled into the dark area. As he floundered for a bit before he regained his balance, his assailants blocked off his only escape from the dead end alleyway.

A round of rough laughter, accompanied by a few leering cracks and comments assaulted John's ears as he regained his equilibrium. He raised shocked eyes to confront a group of five older men, a few holding weapons clutched lightly in their hands.

"Well, well, well, looky now. A plump pigeon, right for the plucking," mocked a grease-slicked man, the unspoken leader of this gang.

One of the men, lightly thumping a solid looking crowbar against the palm of one large hand, leered at John. The lust in his eyes was barely illuminated by the poor light seeping in from the streetlights, but it was obvious to John, who was growing more alarmed with each passing minute. "Heh, I wouldn't mind keeping the young man company!"

The men were slowly advancing in on John, closing ranks to ensure the younger man would be hanging around for awhile. John slowly backed up with each step they took, trying to edge away from them.

He swayed. The alcohol swam in his system, but now the spark of fear and adrenaline coursed swifter, sobering him. His fists were unconsciously curled into tight fists, ready to defend himself should one of them get too close. However, although he knew how to take care of himself in some situations, there were far too many for him to take care of by himself. And they had weapons, whereas he only had his two fists and feet.

Swallowing his fear and taking command of his situation, John demanded, "What do you want?!"

The leader, smirked at the shorter man, "Why, we want nothing more than payment from you."

"Payment for what?" John asked, belligerently.

"Payment for your protection. These streets can be dangerous at night and lone birds like yourself need to be protected."

As John backed up another step, he suddenly found the brick end of the alley against his back. The gang in front of him had managed to back him to the end of the small space, far enough from the street that their actions could go unnoticed, especially considering the lack of human traffic out.

With more bravado than he really felt, John said, "I don't need protection, especially offered by the likes of you." His eyes darted nervously around the five men, looking for any weaknesses and finding none. "Besides, I don't have much money on me, so this is a waste of your time."

The five men suddenly burst into laughter, their voices harsh and cruel.

"We don't want cash payment, little bird. We only take payment in the form of flesh, and what we want is yours."

John growled under his breath and prepared himself to fight. He snarled, "Over my dead body!" He was prepared to go down fighting, even if it resulted in his death. And it looked like it just might. These men were serious in their intent and John was not the best equipped to defend himself. His life in the orphanage had been sheltered from such violence, and his current fitness schedule had yielded some self-defense training but not much.

"Now that wouldn't be any fun at all, at least not for us," one of the thugs taunted.

John didn't know who moved first, his attention having been concentrated on the thug in front of him, but he was aware of a sudden amount of movement to his left. The surprised man suddenly found himself being thrown to the side, his head smacking against the wall of the alley with a sickening crack.

John slumped to the slightly damp concrete, his head spinning and dizzy. He was vaguely aware of raucous laughter in a loud din, barely concealing a low moaning. He was shocked to realize that he was the one moaning, as pain continued to spike through his head. Disoriented and shell shocked, John could taste blood in his mouth, could feel it trickle slightly out of the corner of his lips.

The blow to his head had been hard enough that black spots were fading in and out of his vision, even as he tightly clenched his eyes shut to close out the world. He was barely aware that the gang of five was above him, surrounding his kneeling body in a loose circle.

A small sense of self preservation was screaming at him to get up, compelling him to try and move. However, as the stunned doctor tried to gain his feet, one of the gang members decided to kick him in the gut, causing a sharp stab of agony to pierce through his belly.

As he curled inwards on his body, trying to alleviate his suffering, John could feel rough hands on the rest of himself. Somebody's fingernails were digging into the flesh of his arms, holding him down to the dirty ground, as another pair of hands roughly tore the front of his shirt, splitting the seams.

A sweaty palm was brought down over his mouth, muffling a cry.

Desperately trying to block out what was happening to him, he tightly clenched his eyes shut, his mind screaming internally for help.

Somebody help me please!

* * *

Dimly, in the background, the leader was aware of a low growling noise in the distance. Guttural and low, it almost sounded like a mongrel dog's snarl, but with a disturbing, almost human-like quality. Dismissing it as unimportant, he blocked out outside distractions, focusing on his now-quiet victim.

It was a pity, for if he had been paying attention, he might have been able to save his own life.

* * *

Red.

Blood.

Their blood.

That was all Sherlock wanted at the moment. A dark streak of menace within the vampire was welling up within his soul, urging the immortal one to satisfy his immediate wants. He had the sudden desire to feel the crunch of human bones; to feel hot, rich blood welling up from its warm container and flood his mouth with its metallic presence.

Such desire to kill and feast upon his prey was a foreign thing to the vampire, his discipline having long contained his darker urges. However, such was not the current case, the situation before him dispelling all thoughts of civilized behavior.

The horrible scene before him was laid out in its gruesome entirety, Sherlock's vibrant gaze catching all the details. John, his John, was pinned to the ground by five much larger thugs, each wearing the clothing belonging to their kind of garbage. Greasy and unkempt, the portrait they made was perfect if in the seedy underbelly that London could hold.

Sherlock's eyes could pick out the details, even with the poor lighting in the alley. He could see tatters of John's clothing, both lying limply on the man's small frame and torn away, scattered on the damp, dirty ground. The small amounts of light fell onto patches of John's bare skin, revealing his vulnerable state.

Sherlock's extra perceptive nose could detect the faint trace of blood on the air, tainting the space with its metallic appeal. However, it did not belong to any of the five men who were infuriating the vampire, but rather to the young mortal who held his heart.

His vision went crimson, undeniable rage bursting forth in a ruby tinted tide. His lips curled up in a fierce snarl as his gaze fell upon the disgusting man who was currently nestled between John's outstretched legs. The most immediate threat to John became his first choice of targets, a low growl beginning in his throat.

After all, it was only proper to give your prey a small warning before pouncing.

* * *

He didn't know what happened.

One minute, he was allowing his leader first dibs on their prize. The next minute, the self-same leader was hurtling through the air to ram against the alley's walls with a sickening smack.

A black blur had rushed past their kneeling forms and launched itself. He heard the cruel snarl right before the man went flying.

His shocked mind had just enough time to focus in on a dark shadow with glowing eyes before pure panic set in. The remaining thugs lurched away, abandoning their victim, as they sought to rescue themselves. However, it was a case of too little, too late.

One by one, the black shadow caught them, throwing them with a vengeance against the walls of the alley. The bricks provided and unyielding force, although some of his friends were being thrown with enough power that their bodies indented themselves into the hard surface. He felt adrenaline rush through his veins as mindless panic continued to spike in his head. Gibberish spilled from his lips as he gave one brief shriek of prayer before it was his turn.

A grip, icy cold as death and strong as steel, closed around his neck, crushing the bones in his throat. He had no time to fight back before his neck collapsed, no chance to defend himself from his terrifying executioner. Mercifully, by the time his killer had tossed his body against the alley's wall, he was already dead.

* * *

Sherlock resolutely forced himself to calm down, to dispel the red haze back from whence it came. There was no movement in the alley, no sound save for his harsh breathing and the shallow breaths coming from the figure sprawled on the alley's floor. Sherlock closed his eyes, catching his breath, forcing his rage and blood lust to dispel before facing his fallen love.

Kneeling on the ground, uncaring about the maintenance of his dark clothing, Sherlock quickly assessed John's situation. His quivering nose still caught the scent of blood, but a quick examination revealed it was trickling from John's mouth and was not coming from lower areas, as he had originally feared.

Sherlock stared into John's wide eyes, noting the dilated pupils indicating shock. The watery eyes, floating in sockets. Indeed, John's skin was pale, his breathing shallow and rapid. To Sherlock's vampiric hearing, John's heart was beating abnormally fast, though Sherlock knew that his pulse would be weak.

He quickly unfastened his cloak, sweeping the heavy black fabric around his ward's body. The immediate concern was to get John warm and into a safe place.

"Sherlock…" A small breath of air, and the vampire stilled.

He knelt down further, a hand on John's shoulder. John's eyes were wide, mouth slightly parted. His brow was sweaty, hair damp. He was still in shock, still swaying from the adrenaline.

He reached for Sherlock, reached for his mouth, eyes narrowing.

It was only then that Sherlock realized his fangs had descended during his blood lust.

With a Power he usually only used when feeding, Sherlock began to quickly cloud John's mind. He wanted to protect him. Erase the memories of the attack. Erase the memories of him. Of his fangs. Of the blood. To guide him into a gentle sleep.

"Don't… Don't do that…" John murmured, waving his hand clumsily in the air as if trying to dispel the unknown force, shaking his head slightly in discomfort.

Sherlock's unnecessary breath hitched in his throat as he pulled back from his ward, startled.

"You're here."

"I'm here John."

"My room… the other night… Was that- Were you there? Was that you?"

Hesitation. "Yes."

John's eyes drifted around the alley, taking in the carnage. "They… they were going to…"

"They're dead now. You're safe."

"You killed them."

It was said in a tone of utterly disbelief, hushed in the darkness.

Sherlock's eyes met John's. "Yes."

"I've missed you."

It was a simple phrase. Entirely out of place given the circumstances and Sherlock was caught off guard.

Their eyes met, and a single heart beat of time passed by.

They clashed. Both reaching for each other at the same time, hurried and nearly frantic.

They kissed. Passion, energy, fear, adrenaline.

John tasted of thickened blood, as it trickled out of his mouth from a cut inner lip. Sherlock moaned. John tasted of iron, whiskey and chocolate, richly velvet and warm. His pulse thrummed hard now in his throat as Sherlock brought a hand to it, thumb against the throb, drinking it all in.

"I've missed you. I've missed you. I've missed you." John repeated as he had pulled away, dropping a kiss on Sherlock's face with each sentence.

The cloak slipped from John's shoulders as he shifted in the alley, and Sherlock began to shake with awakened panic, beginning to pull away.

"Hush…" John breathed softly. He threaded a hand through Sherlock's hair, the vampire nearly curling up. So long. So long without touch. So long without John.

"I know." The young doctor whispered, his arm reached around him. Sherlock let him. Let himself be held.

Fingers brushed against his mouth, his fangs. The vampire recoiled. John held tight. "Hush… It's fine. It's all fine."

He breathed in John's scent, head tucked into the gentle curve of the man's body.

John knew. Knew what he was entirely. And he held him. Rocked him as he trembled like a new born pup. Tangled fingers in his hair. Murmuring, "It's alright. Hush. It's alright. I've got you."

"Ten years." Sherlock breathed, as he managed to still himself finally.

"Yes."

"It could be more. So many more together John. We could be together, for always."

John smiled. "Let's just begin with tomorrow, love."

* * *

**London, England 1952**

"Forgive me, Sherlock," a whispered plea uttered by one preparing to leave the mortal coil.

"What's there to forgive, John?" A brave smile from one whose sun is eclipsing and losing its light.

"For not being strong enough to stay with you. For not having enough courage."

A desperate grasp, hands meeting hands, eyes searching eyes. Tears gleamed in eyes that had vowed not to show sadness. Sherlock's lips frantically rained kisses over their joined fingers, trying to entice his lover to stay, if only for a moment longer.

Please. Just one more moment.

Just one more.

"No, my love. You have more courage than any other I have ever met."

A sad smile, terrible in its finality.

"But I'm leaving you alone to face the world."

"I have faced it before. I am not afraid to do so again."

Blue eyes, faded with the curse of age, searched eternally vibrant silver. "Then promise me one thing, Sherlock."

"Anything."

"Find someone else. Don't live in the shadows any longer. Fall in love with another and continue to live. Embrace the night as you must, but never surrender to the day."

A fervent shake of a dark head. "Never. I will never love another. I cannot give my heart away when it's no longer mine to give."

A sad, but resigned smile, born from knowledge that his request would be answered thusly. Pain in the chest made speaking hurt as time crept in. Breathing became harder for the invalid lying in bed, the lure to surrender the struggle becoming more enticing with each passing moment. But the urge to reassure his lover overrode his desire to rest, to slip into his eternal sleep. His love was strong, strong enough to strengthen his will to hold on, if only for a brief moment more.

A smile, wiping away the sadness, crept across the aged face. Eyes sleepily closed, as strength ebbed and faded away. In a soft whisper, as fragile as the passing wind, he gave his lover a promise.

"Then Sherlock... I will just have to find my way back to your side."

One last breath, slow and futile, as an elderly heart stopped. Life ended for the mortal, a quiet passing for time well spent. A soul fled the scene, headed for heavens forever denied to the immortal being left to mourn.

Tears finally escaped their gray prison, streaking their salty paths down pale cheeks long unused to the sun's rays. Eyes closed in sorrow and pain as the vampire laid a final kiss on his lover's empty shell. His own promise was whispered into ears no longer capable of hearing.

"And I shall wait for as long as it takes John. Forever."

* * *

**Author Note: Onwards to present day Sherlock/John!**

**Please review :)**


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